


Hallmark

by ljs



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Episode Tag, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-10
Updated: 2013-10-10
Packaged: 2017-12-29 00:53:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/998916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ljs/pseuds/ljs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after 1.04, "The Lesser Key of Solomon."</p><p>Abbie has a question about this email from the Northstar people....</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hallmark

After the damn horrible day – _days_ – she’d had, Abbie needed nothing so much as twenty hours of dreamless sleep, but the promptings of her training told her she needed to know : “Crane, why do I have an email from the Northstar people asking about my customer satisfaction?”

From his perch on her sofa Crane opened his eyes, barely, and murmured, “I was perfectly satisfied with my interaction with the kind Yolanda. Please convey my compliments to her and her superiors.”

Abbie sighed. Once she started, she couldn’t let it go. “All right, I’ll ask a different way. Why did you call the Northstar people?”

He shifted his long body, and then opened his eyes. His look was a masterpiece of offended… Crane-ness. “Because, lieutenant, you had locked me in the car without instructions on how to escape durance vile.”

“Durance v—No, never mind.” Her smartphone in her hand, she snuggled deeper into her armchair – which was stupid, she wasn’t going to escape her own freaking whatever-he-said by retreat or sleep or any damn thing. Pushing aside the cold memory of Jenny glaring at her across a police station table, of years of Jenny’s glares, she glanced back down at the phone. “So can you explain why, um, ‘Yolanda’ has added a personal note saying you’re better than a Hallmark card?”

The silence stretched out in her darkened apartment before he said, “No. I don’t think I can explain that.” 

“It’s the Hallmark-card thing, isn’t it.” 

“Indeed.”

She found herself laughing, she didn’t know why. “Okay. Did you say something sappy to Yolanda, something all gooey sentimental and stuff?”

His eyebrow arched up, _way_ up. It was ridiculous how cute that arrogant little tic of his was, she’d really like him to shut that nonsense down, but might as well wish for the moon–- “I suppose if one were to be uncharitable, my recounting of my love for Katrina would be considered sentimental.” Before she could apologize, he went on, “It was prompted, however, by Yolanda’s speaking of her own romantic distress. I merely offered my story as… as an aid to self-contemplation.” Then he reached for his mug of herbal tea (or ‘tisane,’ whatever, he’d been so obnoxious about her calling it tea when she’d fixed it for him).

She felt guilty for a moment, then pushed it aside. She was so damn sick of feeling guilty for stuff she couldn’t change. “Are you... okay?”

“Mmmm,” he said from behind his mug, which she figured meant Not Really. Then, clearly wanting to change the subject: “I am still confused about your use of the term ‘hallmark card,’ as hallmarks are impressions into metal, not paper attestations of worth.” 

“’Paper attestations of worth,’” she repeated, and laughed again. “You know, that’s kind of what they are. Um, Hallmark is a manufacturer of greeting cards, of… pre-made letters that say Thanks, or Happy Birthday, or I Love You, or whatever.”

Silence again, but this time it was easier. She reached for her own mug, and as she moved, she felt a twinge from that fight in the church, like an old bruise had been brushed back to life.

“Miss Mills, are _you_ , er, okay?”

She wanted to say ‘Are you even joking, Jack?’ She wanted to say ‘You think apocalypse and demons and betrayal are going to make me feel okay? You want to think about the meaning of goddamn Paradise Lost?’ But really she didn’t want to answer him at all. What she wanted was impossible or yes, lost, or – “Move over, Crane.”

He rustled like the bird he was named after, all Revolutionary feathers and attitude. “Of course. Did I offend you?”

“No.” She took the sofa cushion next to him, took a deep breath of his woodsmoke scent, and held out her hand. “Pass me the remote control.”

“Certainly. Are we going to watch television?”

“I thought I’d check out the Hallmark Channel, see if one of their gooey sentimental commercials was on so I could show you what I’m talking about.”

The TV sparked alive in the dark, and she clicked to the channel without having to look for the number. (She’d guard to the death her own embarrassing addiction to the happy-family-and-romance movies they ran on that channel on the weekends; she’d successfully kept Luke from ever finding out, thanks to a fast finger and ESPN. Crane was safe, though.)

On the screen appeared…an old _Frasier_ episode, right, there were reruns late at night. Another Crane, she thought, and laughed, and let another layer of aches go. 

“I’m listening,” said the Crane on the television.

“Interesting,” said her Crane, and put his booted feet up on her coffee table. “Is this the gooey sentimental advertisement you mentioned?”

“Nope,” she said. “It’s a program. He’s a character who listens to people’s problems and gives advice. Kind of like you.”

In the reflected blue light, her Crane smiled down at her. “Does he annoy people as much as I annoy you?”

“Pretty much,” she said, and rested her hand on his leg. “So shut up.”

“Ah. This must be a Hallmark moment,” he said dryly.

Pretty much, she thought, relaxing all the way into warmth and comfort. Yeah, pretty much.


End file.
